


Fleeting

by Blistering_Typhoons



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Ratatouille (2007)
Genre: Anton is the embodiment of drama, As only these two can do it, Banter, Comfort Food, Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Food Porn, French, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metaphors, Sort Of, Starvation, That's it, Vomiting, semi-purposeful starvation, that's the tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25077562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blistering_Typhoons/pseuds/Blistering_Typhoons
Summary: Anton is starving.
Relationships: Anton Ego/Auguste Gusteau
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	Fleeting

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Violets Are Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899298) by [IncurableNecromantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic). 



> While not a sequel, or set in the same universe, I was heavily inspired to write for this ship after reading 'Violets Are Blue' by IncurableNecromantic. I feel the need to mention it, as it is what spiralled me into this niche (very niche, Lord save my blackened and hungry soul) obsession and lead to the birth of this fic and it would have felt odd not acknowledging it :D
> 
> Hopefully they don't mind, but also- go read 'Violets Are Blue'! It's fantastically good!
> 
> Other than that, welcome to 'I-have-way-too-much-free-time'. To summarize, when I first stumbled across this ship, I honest to God astral projected into it and now I'm here- lost, dazed and blissfully happy.
> 
> (I abhor the French language with a fondness borne out of suffering and surrender. Italics are the fruit of my labour- ok, I'm going to bed now.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Paris glitters at night. 

Ego has watched the lights twinkle through the distorted glass of wine in his hand many times before, and he does so now. Elegant fingers wrap around the bottom, slippery with condensation and an emaciated wrist swirls the familiar darkness inside. 

The chaos of the city is muffled by his windows, the only sounds really puncturing the stuffy silence being those of the vehicles swarming the streets. He tries desperately to focus on that and not the nauseating feeling of alchohol dripping into an empty stomach- acid and disintegrating.

His permanent scowl deepens as he loses his mind again to the feeling, dragging his consciousness back to the forefront once more. He grits his polished teeth against the grumbling pang that he can feel into his chest, grunting in repressed discomfort. He takes another sip in rebellion, nearly choking when he swallows too hard, liquid punching the air trapped in his throat.

Quiet frustration oozes down his neck to settle in his lower back, weakening his muscles as he recovers from his silent humiliation. His free hand flexes, arm laid over his stomach in small reprieve. His eyes cloud over as hunger roils under his skin, brain fuzzing out again with wine and torturous famine.

Perhaps he should go lie down.

The thought of the weight of his own pitiful distress pressing onto him as he shifts uncomfortably for the whole night is not a particularly appealing idea, but one that will have to do.

So he drains his glass, nearly stumbling backwards as he does so. He plants his feet into the carpet, letting the hooting and shouting outside wash over him as he presses his fingers to his throbbing temples.

After that, he sets the glass down on the table and very carefully restores his bottle to it's former place.

And then he stubbornly glides over to his bedroom, retrieves his coat and umbrella, checks his watch and walks out the door.

_Not part of the plan, but very well..._

He hasn't heart to stop his aching, wandering feet as they traverse familiar ground. The air is thick and heady, the sounds already overwhelming as he treads the cobble and dirt. Every streetlamp is an assult on his eyes, every excited shout drills into his stomach and the music that seems to emanate from every corner sways in time to his own unsteady movements. He doesn't dare lean on his umbrella, for fear of it slipping through a groove and sending him hurtling to the ground that seems very far away.

Instead he tucks it under his left arm and tightens his chest against the thrills that bloom across his torso. What those thrills entail is between him and his addled state of mind and sobriety.

That doesn't stop him from cursing his every flinch, muttered huff of discomfort or the direction of his weak, useless body. 

Soon enough, however, the relatively loud surroundings drop away to hushed slumber. His clicking heels echo amongst the tall, imposing buildings around him. Even the lights seem to dim here and he feels a familiar and utterly disgusting sense of calm wash over him.

He'll never understand how it is Gusteau, of all people, which occupies one of these architectural monstrosities. 

He sneers at the elegant steps that lead up to the annoyingly beautiful wooden door. He scoffs at the charming doorbell that bounces through his head and the light that flickers to life from within. 

A small, wholly insignificant part of him wonders if he should feel guilty for rousing the occupant of the veritable castle, but he waves it away along with the other silent musings banging against his pained skull.

The door swings open, revealing Gusteau in his cozy glory- glad in a hideous striped blue robe. A warm glow filters through the doorway, bathing Ego and the street behind him. He winces against it slightly, sending a bleary glare at the smiling chef, clearly awake this entire time.

''Anton!'', Gusteau beams, rather obviously in the critic's opinion.

''Gusteau.'', he replies, almost as dry as the wine churning in his bowels.

Gusteau chuckles deeply, stepping aside and gesturing for Ego to enter.

''Please, come inside! What brings you here, _mon cher_?'', the chef says, eyes gleaming at the annoyed 'tsk' Ego gives in response to the endearment.

''Inspection.'', he replies haughtily, stepping across the threshold. 

He now notices that the kitchen light must have been on for some time, as the sounds and smells of meal preparation greet him.

He ignores the scent of soap and spices that wafts from Gusteau as he passes him, not even wincing at the flutter of emptiness in his ribcage that flies behind his eyes. 

''Well that's good! I made enough food for two- did you bring any wine?''

Ego pauses slightly, already catching a whiff of whatever abomination Gusteau's going to subject him to. He catch notes of freshly chopped vegetables, chives and something raw he can't quite place. It must be the hunger, because the beginnings of saliva are flooding his mouth and his eyes are unfocused again. 

A touch appears on his arm- soft and concerned. 

Ego flinches away, skin burning.

_Good Lord, how drunk is he?_

''Anton-''

''Don't call me that, _Auguste_.''

''-Anton, what's wrong?''

He grinds down on his molars, breathing in through his nose. Which is a terrible mistake, as the aroma bursts to life in his skull- pressing into every corner of his mouth and staying there.

''Nothing, I forgot the wine.'', he says, as calmly as he doesn't feel.

There's a soft silence, Ego resolutely staring at the kitchen door as Gusteau's gaze penetrates the side of his face. Ego wraps his arms around his stomach once more, doing his best to stifle the growls emitted within.

Gusteau hums quietly, soft hands settled on his stomach.

''No problem, I have plenty.''

That startles a laugh out of Ego, and it's not nearly as derisive as he would like it to be.

''I can't wait.''

''Trust me, Anton! Have I ever let you down, _ma beauté_?''

''Yes. And kindly stop calling me by various of your ridiculous pet names.''

-

Anton finds he's oddly content to just hold his glass of crimson poison (he refuses to drink it, he does has some dignity left) and watch as Gusteau's bustles about cheerfully. To Anton's horror, it had been revealed that _blanquette de veau_ was on the menu tonight. 

He had been tempted to leave then and there, refusing to be served something so... _simple_. But then Gusteau had taunted him with his own pride, never losing a witty step as he set the metric ton of vegetables to cook. 

_''Are you afraid of a simple stew, my critic? Surely, you've been brave enough to try worse?''_

Ego had scowled, but dropped back into the kitchen seat anyways, sullen.

He watches as Gusteau nearly finishes the dish, adding the cream sauce to the veal and vegetables- folding it in gently and tenderly.

Ego swirls his glass again, allowing the room to swallow him in it's aromatic fluorescent peasantry. He lazily regards the kitschy decorations draped, hung and situated haphazardly on the walls and shelves. He nearly groans at the cat clock that adorns the wall above the stove, tinny paw swinging merrily with every tick.

_Starvation is oddly peaceful._

Braving another sip of wine, he exhales in disgust. He can see Gusteau chuckle through the wet glass, trails of liquor distorting the man's figure.

He glitters.

''Never knew you to be so sadistic, Gusteau. Laughing as you poison me.'', he muses, hunching over to regard the chef.

Gusteau laughs outright this time, setting a white ceramic bowl in front of Ego's disapproving gaze.

''And I never knew you to be so dramatic!'', he replies, grinning at Ego.

Ego hums dismissively, stomach coiling in unwanted anticipation as Gusteau seems to change his mind, retrieving the bowl again with an apologetic smile and ladles a good amount of stew into it. It's almost barbarian the way he just plops the viscous substance into it, garnishing the chives (not even fresh anymore) almost as an afterthought, before setting it before Ego and going to fetch his own.

Ego watches as the chef sinks into the adjacent seat, wincing at the pain of standing and moving around for a good few minutes. 

''Do I give thanks now?'', he bites out and Gusteau grins salaciously.

''Only if you want to, my dear critic.'', he says, voice pitched comically low, and Ego has to stifle the bubble in his lungs as his mouth twitches.

''That's horrid.''

'' _Oui_ , it certainly is. Enjoy.''

The stew is sinfully creamy once Ego spoons it in his mouth reluctantly, the healthy heaping of veal almost disintegrating in his mouth. The chives he adds on breaks the richness wonderfully, even as he swallows it down carefully. He can feal the delicious heat travelling down his chest, settling snugly in his belly as his body practically screams for more- metaphorical hands reaching out and claws scrabbling at his insides.

''You've oversalted it.''

A glint in those clear depths.

''Ah, yes. I was worried about that.''

''Honestly, how you even manage these things is beyond me.''

''I aim to remain ineffable. It adds to the wonder, _non_?''

Another swallow, prompting a delightful shiver up his cold spine. He feels hot, and he feels full- even deigning to sip the wine.

''No.''

Gusteau feigns a pained sigh (intermingled most unfortunately with a genuine one of pleasure) as he tilts his head and looks despairingly at Ego.

He'll count that as a victory.

-

It is well past any sort of respectable time when Ego finally bids Gusteau goodnight, blood hot and pumping with calories of energy. His brain is almost startling in it's former clarity, throbbing now replaced by a lack of sleep and wine drunk.

He survives all of three minutes when he's back at his house, before his stomach inevitably revolts and he's emptying out all of the disgustingly buttery and silky food - cold as it spouts into the toilet in a thick, continous sludge.

''Too rich, Auguste.'', he gasps out to no one in particular, heaving as it rises in his throat. 

He hasn't felt better in days.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback welcome!
> 
> Have a wonderful day :D
> 
> (I have revamped my tumblr - 'blistering-typhoons'! Come say hello if you wish :D)


End file.
